Nearby, Fiona straightens clothes. I’ve seen her topless, sunning herself in paradise, but of course, it wasn’t her. She fit right in, though. I’ve overheard that her bookings have been sporadic lately, but she has a real shot at making it big as a BP model if a talent scout ever pays this place a visit. I know almost every employee here. Which is dumb, because none of them really know me.
Tara hands the customer the bags.
Next in line, I step forward. JuanCarlos probably told her all sorts of slander about me. She must think I’m a total flake because I walked out on my job without giving notice. My only hope is that I’m such a non-entity that JuanCarlos hasn’t mentioned me. God. This isn’t going to work. “Any job openings?”
“Guys!” Fiona says, bouncing on her toes.
Adam and Hunter come running. I look at the floor. Hunter and I haven’t talked since he called me a homo, and my attraction to Adam makes me uncomfortable. Why is she calling them over?
“Eric's joining the team,” she tells them.
Adam gets me in a headlock and musses my hair, laughing. “It's all about the employee discount.” The physical contact reminds me of playing with him in paradise. He releases me from the headlock but leaves his arm around my shoulder.
Hunter is excited too. They all seem happy about me applying, which is weird. I’ve hung out in the store a lot, I’ve listened to them go on about themselves, but I never thought these people might actually like me.
I fill out the paperwork--not an application, but the tax information and all the other stuff for a new hire. They hand me a regulations manual. Tara tells me to come back later that night to start work. Maybe I’ll be able to make rent after all.
I walk around the city to waste some time. Making it to Friday seems completely doable now that I have a new job. I’ll work today and tomorrow and then go to the funeral service. This is just an upswing in my mood—I inch toward happiness and always crash back down—but this time I can’t let myself bottom back out. If I take a swan dive, a permanent mental brake is a real possibility. It’s hard to process, but I have to accept that my escape into fantasy land nearly killed me.
Aimless wandering becomes a quest for Loo’s graffiti. Far back in an ally, some spray painted skeletons dance on a brick wall. They could be Loo’s but seem too gleeful and clean. Loo liked dripping, melting, and a distressed look that made everything she created look war torn or ravaged by time.
Two workers in overalls are covering up a mural on the side of a fast food restaurant. Tentacles stick out from freshly painted gray rectangles, but not for long. A roller covers a line of suction cups in more gray. This had to be one of Loo’s. I take a picture with my phone of what little is left. Graffiti is transitory. Most of her art will be gone before I have a chance to see it.
I almost call Victor to ask him if he knows where Loo’s other graffiti might be located, but think better of it. I’ll see him Friday.
Loo’s most elaborate work isn’t her graffiti; it’s the coffee shop. What if they’ve already changed it back to look like every other Mermaid Coffee Co.? Loo would be so pissed. All that work!
I run, fearing the worst, and look through the front window of my old workplace. Everything looks the same. A tentacle snakes along the upper corner. A hook hand props up the Necronomicon. A spiky puffer fish looks ready to explode.
JuanCarlos hands a customer a receipt. Loo was scheduled to work today. So was I. I’m never going to make coffee again. Fine with me. As long as they don’t ruin Loo’s art, I’ll be okay.
Loo is dead.
I won’t be okay. Loo saw me struggling and did her best to help. I can’t survive without friends. If I’m alone much longer, I’ll lose my mind or worse. I need to make friends at Brief Pose. My life hangs in the balance. God, that sounds dramatic, but it’s not an exaggeration. If I go back into the catalog, I could lose my sanity and never get it back. I could die. I almost died.
I shiver and hug myself, remembering how cold I was, how close to death.
I look across the street at Brief Pose, at what feels like my last hope.
Clara holds a sign that reads, “BP destroys young minds.” She’s oddly stylish for a protester, with a tight bob, skinny jeans, and a fitted leather jacket. I recognize her as the woman I saw outside the changing room, talking with her son through the door. Now she stands alone in protest.
Behind her, in the tropical posters, the waves lap against the beach. The image is in motion, but that can’t be true. It’s an optical illusion.
I lean onto one foot to shift my perspective. It’s not a trick of the eye that could happen to anyone; it’s a hallucination. Add one more special effect shot to the growing list. I’m not well. Something is seriously wrong with me.
“Any change today?” Marshall stands beside me, holding out his hand.
I don’t want Hunter to see us talking, and so I grab Marshall by his canvas jacket and pull him off to the side. “How did you know?”
Marshall looks confused.
“How did you know change was coming? You said there would be change soon.”
“My wife, she died with our daughter in her arms. I see them sometimes. Do you ever see your parents?” I’ve commiserated with Marshal a few times before. I’ve told him about my foster parents and how I feel guilty sometimes, even though I know it’s not my fault.
“No, never. They’re dead. No, I’ve never seen them.” I’m not sure that’s true. I see them in my imagination, but the line between imagination and reality is seriously blurry right now. I thought Loo was the only thing I was dealing with, but I’ve been trying to get better for two years, and maybe I’ve been getting worse.
I’m distracted by something out of the corner of my eye across the street, and for a split second, I think dirty Santa has come for me, but it’s Clara waving the red lettering of her sign.
She yells, “Close BP! BP destroys young minds! Ban BP! Before it’s too late!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
New Job
Hazel flares with green around a pool of ink. Intense, unblinking EYES. They are Tara's eyes. She’s pointing a snap-off blade utility knife at my throat.
I step back.
“I'm sorry,” she says. “Where was I?”
We’re standing in a strictly organized stockroom. Juliet sits on a counter and studies a trigonometry textbook. Her straight blond hair is tied back in a ponytail to keep it out of her face while she studies. The dress code governs the roll of our pant legs and sleeves, the cologne and perfume we use, the number of buttons we button. Juliet has to wear her hair down when she’s out on the floor.
“Damn it, Fiona. This isn't study hall.”
Juliet leaves in a huff. This is my first day, and even I know her name isn’t Fiona. Fiona is the redhead, the one trying to be a model. Juliet is the blonde majoring in a physical science. Tara acts strange on the floor, spacing out sometimes, but she’s even more spacey when not interacting with customers. She must be going through something. This can’t be normal for her.
“You were explaining how to unpack incoming shipments.”
“Right. Sorry. When the blade becomes dull, snap off the end, like this.” She snaps off the end segment, puts it into a tin can, and hands me the knife.
I extend the long razor and open a box of graphic T-shirts.
“Careful not to cut the merchandise.”
“Dump JuanCarlos,” I say. It has to be JuanCarlos that’s upset her. He’s always strutting around like he owns the place and flirting to get better tips. He probably cheated on her.
She looks at me like I’m crazy.
“He's an asshole,” I say. “Trust me. I was his supervisor.”
“Have you ever even been in a relationship? Some of us have to live in the real world.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just, not all of us can live up to your perfect standards.”
What the hell has JuanCarlos told her
?!
She presses play on a DVD player under a TV on a cart and leaves as an orientation video comes on.
I recognize the monolog. “As the founder, let me personally welcome you to the Brief Pose family. Welcome, dude. There’s no better place to work and no better place to play.” Footage of Matthew Weber intercuts with footage of frolicking models. “As I’m sure you already know, I’m Matthew Weber. I oversee every aspect of BP: from our fashion-forward designs (which remain on the cutting edge of cool) to our unmatched investments in R & D, to the potent shopping experience of our nationwide chain. Throughout the year I visit many of our locations personally. You could be seeing me in person sooner than you think.”
I hear dripping. Loo, sopping-wet, is sitting on the counter, wearing the same black dress she wore when she tried to visit me. Water pools around her and runs off onto the floor.
“I set out to redefine casual sex appeal. That vision now includes you. Welcome to the revolution.” The video continues to play, but I can’t focus on it, not with Loo sitting there. Her presence should be unsettling, but it’s comforting to have her back, even if she’s soaked and must be imaginary. She was the only one I could talk to, and I need to talk now more than ever.
“My first day, and I'm already pushing people away. I can't help it.” I hop up on the counter next to her.
“Let go,” she says as if it’s the only advice I need.
Her words chill me. I hug myself, clutching my biceps. Letting go is the scariest thing I can imagine. Loo is dead. I almost killed myself. Yet, I’m acting like everything is fine. I want to yell and scream and break things and run away. But that’s not an option. I need sanity. I need this job.
Water trickles down the walls. It seems real, but it can’t be.
“Why?” Speaking disturbs a well of sadness I didn’t know was rising to the surface. Why does she care what happens to me? Why give me advice? I’m nothing. “Why do I matter?”
“We all matter.” More water gushes from the seam where the wall meets the ceiling. “Now let go.”
“I can't.” If I fall apart, I won’t be able to pull myself back together.
The RUMBLE of a subway train approaches. Every moment of every day, I’ve been holding back a train. It’s only a matter of time before it hits me dead on and I shatter into a million pieces.
“Loo, you're hurting me.” I’m not ready for the train. I’m not ready!
The orientation video still plays. “Both male and female sex pheromone have been literally bonded with the paper.” The whole room trembles. “This cutting-edge technology will invigorate a new campaign with a persuasive draw that will revolutionize the industry.”
“I said, I can't!”
“You can't what?” In the doorway, Adam cradles a rugby ball. The shaking has stopped.
An open catalog rests on my lap. I’m sitting on the counter next to a naked mannequin. Loo is gone. Or more precisely was never there. I close the catalog and put it aside. Adam must think I’m a freak. I almost say “fuck you,” but hold it in.
“Name's Adam.” I already know his name, but we have never been formally introduced before.
He shakes my hand. The contact makes me conscious of how starved I am for touch.
“Dude, were you talking to yourself?”
I go back to watching the video. Models lounge among large silk pillows as the credits roll.
Adam seems unconcerned by my lack of response as he stands next to me and watches the credits, spinning the ball in his hand.
“Hear about the BP in Chicago?”
“Yeah, vandals,” I say. It was in the news.
“Same thing in LA. The protesters are being charged with terrorism for using some kind of hallucinogen.”
“Crazy.” Maybe I’m not crazy. Maybe I’ve been drugged by terrorists! That would explain a lot.
“I know. Fuck, huh? We're on the front lines, dude.”
We’ve had exactly one protester, but maybe she put something in the air vents. I perk up, unable to hide my interest. “Was it permanent? Are the people getting better?”
“They didn’t say. It happened just today.”
The video ends.
He’s trying to connect over a common threat. Could I even be friends with a handsome jock? Do I dislike him because I find him attractive?
“Hey, interested in playing some rugby? Flex.” He flexes his intimidating bicep. “Come on.” He pats my chest with the back of his hand.
I flex my right bicep so I can stop this uncomfortable exchange.
He squeezes the muscle. “That’s the stuff. I thought you were filling out. Work out a lot, huh? You should put it to good use. You can’t be all work and no play. You have to let loose! We have practice tomorrow night. Can smash some skulls. Just think about it.” He smiles big, excited. “Kick ass.”
He takes a clipboard off the wall and leaves. He must be teasing. I can’t imagine playing rugby.
Yuki comes in. “You don't like dumb jocks?” She read my mind. Or my face. I feel my scowl relax. “My name’s Yuki. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Eric Loan.” I’ve only seen her working here a few times. She’s usually off on her own, organizing clothes in the clearance section. Quite a few college students work here that I don’t know much about because they don’t work often enough.
She holds a SEASHELL that looks similar to the one I got from Dan in paradise. “Have you…” I continue in a whisper. “Have you been in the BP catalog?”
She laughs. “I’m not a model.”
“I don’t mean as a model.”
Once it’s out of my mouth, I realize how crazy I sound. We look at each other for an awkward moment as I badly wish that I could take back what I said.
The rest of the night consists of folding and refolding (my folds aren’t tight enough), organizing displays, and mopping and dusting and all that fun cleaning stuff that every store has to do. After getting my schedule (I get Friday off for Loo’s funeral), I head home.
I see Santa on the street again, but it’s a guy wearing a red coat taking his dog out in the middle of the night to take a piss.
The BP billboard has changed to a fast food ad of a woman in a bikini eating a sloppy hamburger. I hallucinated Loo today, but I still did pretty well all things considered. And I forgot to eat, so now I’m lightheaded and shaky. But I made it through Wednesday without falling apart. I call that a win.
Once home, I can’t bring myself to tear down the collage, even though I know it can’t be helping my mental state. I turn my seashell over in my hand: the smooth underside and the rough exterior. Rough. Smooth. Rough. Smooth.
I can’t tell anyone about my delusions, or they’ll lock me up. “Have you been in the catalog?” Why did I say that!? If they find out I’m unstable, they’ll fire me, and I’ll be out on the street.
“Loo,” I say to my empty apartment. “You might have been my last chance at successful human interaction. I think I might be a lost cause.”
I half expect Loo to answer, but I’m alone. I should probably think of something to say at her funeral. Not long now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bad Guys Close In Part One
13.1
EXT. BRIEF POSE - DAY
I’m trying, God. Give me a break. I got up, didn’t I? The thought of going back into work felt humiliating, yet I got out of bed, dressed, trudged through the gray. Isn’t that enough? This is Thursday, the day before Loo’s funeral; why do I have to face an angry mob of protesters? Clara Powers now has a whole crazy group on her side. What a difference a day makes.
BRAM STOFFERSON, an eighteen-year-old cameraman dressed in protest gear, turns to track me. I once wished for a camera like that, though now it’s a bit outdated. If things had turned out differently, maybe I would’ve been on the other side of that camera right now, protesting, helping them make a film to change the world. Instead, I’m going to help sell clothing for a morally dubious company and contribute
to the obscene wealth of some douchebag executives.
The oldest video in “The Archive,” thus likely the video a visitor would see first, was shot in front of a Brief Pose store with a handheld HD video camera operated by Bram Stofferson. Bram, a high school senior, cut his teeth documenting police violence and posting it on YouTube. In the prior year, he had already been arrested more than once for disorderly conduct, but the charges were always dropped, partially because, at the time, he was still underage and partially because the charges were likely trumped up anyway. Despite Bram’s best efforts, none of his activism caught much traction online. He was more popular for his commentary on video games, having created a YouTube show called Level This that had over fifty thousand subscribers, but his activism channel had only a few hundred, mostly members of the Black Lives Matter movement. . . . Clara Powers contacted Bram through social media. . . . [She] needed a videographer to document her activism. The two traded posts on Twitter before deciding to stage their own protest inspired by other BP protests that were taking place across the country. . . .
This early footage, some of the shakiest in the collection, begins with a shot looking past the blur of protesters, north up 53rd Ave. The shot pans right and frames the BP storefront.
The protesters come into focus. Johan Montoya and Ivy Nguyen wear BP shirts with “Brief Pose” circled and crossed off with duct tape. Jennifer Lu and Austin Chu hold signs. Clara Powers leads them and the rest in a chant with an unintelligible slogan.
The footage cuts. We are now shoulder to shoulder among the protesters, the shot moving wildly as Bram tries to capture the action. He no longer documents the protest, as he was doing at first, but is instead utilizing his camera to shame BP customers as they try to enter the store.
Many prominent players can be seen briefly. Within the first few minutes, Tara Nicolet, the young Brief Pose store manager featured in BPE, pushes through the crowd, like a celebrity navigating through the paparazzi, and enters her store, caring a coffee cup from across the street, where her boyfriend JuanCarlos Gómez-Montejano works. Despite Tara Nicolet’s age, this isn’t the first clothing store she has managed. Having worked in retail since the age of sixteen, she first became an assistant manager at eighteen and a store manager at twenty-one. At twenty-three, on the Black Friday after Thanksgiving, she supervised the opening of her own Brief Pose, this very location.
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